Finding Home
by carryingthebanner
Summary: 35-year-old Frances Holliday isn't looking for anything more than a place to live when she takes a job at Medda Larkin's theater. What she finds, though, is what she always wanted. (Oneshot)


**Author's note - I'm not the greatest wri** **ter so I hope this isn't too unbearable for you to read. I thought I'd write something about Newsies since I love it so much (hence my username). Give it a try if you'd like! Thanks!**

* * *

"And you'd be Miss Frances Holliday?"

Medda Larkin looked at the woman on her doorstep. She stood with a suitcase at her hip and an umbrella in her hand, with curly brown hair and big, dark eyes. She looked to be in her thirties, although the worry lines on her face aged her somewhat. The woman, apparently named Frances, smiled and closed her umbrella.

"That'd be me."

Medda ushered her inside and closed the door. Frances stomped her boots off on the carpet, making sure her stockings weren't _too_ soaked from the rain. After all, the holes in her shoes certainly didn't do her much help.

"My!" Medda cried. "Have you been wearing those boots the whole way here?"

"Course I have," said Frances, putting her umbrella into her suitcase. "They're the only pair I've got."

Though Frances said it like it meant absolutely nothing, Medda was a little alarmed by the woman who had walked through her door.

"And your suitcase, is - is that all you have?" Medda said uneasily.

"Course it is. I haven't got much, but it's enough," Frances said. "Why do you think I needed a place to live? That is why I took the job here."

Medda knew the woman she'd hired wasn't wealthy or affluent, but she had never thought she had only enough belongings to fill a suitcase. She'd put an ad in the newspaper to find someone to help onstage. As much as she loved having Jack Kelly paint her sets, she needed an extra pair of hands to make her acts run as smoothly as they should. Frances had responded to the ad in no time and said she'd take anything Medda offered. The job came with a room to stay in and enough money for food and general costs of living, so Frances had jumped at the chance to have a roof over her head for the first time in over a year.

Medda shook her head and smiled. "Let me show you to your room."

* * *

After two weeks at Medda's theater, Frances was starting to feel like she had a home. She started to get the hang of the neighborhood and knew that the bakery was on the corner, the bookshop was only open until seven, and that the newsies lived down the street.

Occasionally she'd see a newsie come into Medda's place and say hello, or bring her the morning news for the day. Sometimes she'd even see them and smile or wave. They looked like nice kids, even if they could be a little goofy. _Maybe he could have been one, too,_ she thought. Of course, she had never known what had happened to her son.

After her husband died, she and her son had lived okay together for a while. Even though it hurt that he was gone, she loved her son more than anything and spent as much time with him as she could after work.

It all changed when she got sick.

it happened when he was seven. Some sort of fever had been raging around Manhattan and once it hit the factory she worked at, it was only a matter of time before it hit her too. She spent days in bed with her son at her side, hoping that maybe she'd be better tomorrow. Then she started getting worse. One day. when she was on death's door (or so the doctor said), someone came to take her son away. They cried and held hands for dear life, but it was no use. Frances knew where he was going. The man who came to take her son had an infamous nickname - The Spider.

* * *

Frances shook the memories away like cobwebs and got back to her work. She had to fix one of the lights, which had blown out after last night's show. It was okay, though. She enjoyed her job. Not only did she get food and a roof over her head, but she also got to see the performers and the sets that gave background to the acts. She didn't know who painted them, but she thought they were beautiful.

As she stepped down from her ladder after finishing the job, she heard a voice from behind

"'Scuse me, Miss. Do you know where I could find Miss Medda?"

Frances turned around to see a kid of no more than seventeen leaning on a crutch. He had dirty blond hair that stuck out from under one of the caps the newsies wore. His clothes were in tatters and his face was dirty (or were those bruises?) but he wore a smile like the sun had come up just for him.

"She's out in Brooklyn for a couple 'a days. Why, is there something I can help you with?" Frances asked.

"I was just coming to bring her this week's pape. I can go if you -"

"No! No, it's fine," Frances exclaimed. "Sorry. There just isn't much company 'round here for me." The kid looked like someone nice, and Frances hadn't talked to anyone for longer than she'd like to admit. "What's your name, kid?"

"They all call me Crutchie. And you're Miss -"

"Frances. Frances Holliday. I work on things here for Medda."

The silence that fell after was interrupted by the growling of Crutchie's stomach.

"Say, Crutchie - when was the last time you had something to eat?" Frances asked, eyes full of concern.

"I had some bread the other night. Really, it's fine, the papes just ain't been sellin' as good since the rain keeps people inside - " Crutchie trailed off when he saw Frances' face.

"You need some food, kid. I'll make you something."

* * *

As Frances did her best to make some food for Crutchie, he talked about his friends and his job as a newsie. He told her all about the strike and how Davey and Les had joined them, and how "every newsie in New York went on strike wit' us!" and how he loved being a newsie even though it was dangerous and unpredictable.

By the time he had finished, Frances had made him a bag of food to take to the lodging house. "For the newsies," she told him with a smile. As Crutchie took the food and started to head back home, Frances stopped him. "Tell the newsies that if they ever need something to eat, or someone to talk to, or anything at all, I'm here. I ain't much, but it's hard doing what you boys do."

Crutchie smiled. "For sure."

* * *

As the next few weeks went by, Crutchie would come every few days and tell Frances all about the newsies and what they were up to. Sometimes, even other newsies would stop by for some food or advice from "Miss Frankie" as they had nicknamed her. On one Tuesday afternoon, Crutchie decided to stop by and say hello.

"Miss Frankie? Hello? You in here?" Crutchie called out.

That's when he saw her. She had been sitting on one of the costume chests in the corner, occasionally blowing her nose with her handkerchief and now, Crutchie realized. crying.

"Miss Frankie? What's ta' matter?" Crutchie said, concerned.

Frances blew her nose and looked at Crutchie through tear-filled, puffy eyes. "I'm okay, kid."

Crutchie limped a little closer. "Do you want ta talk?"

Frances smiled and wiped her eyes. "I was just thinking, that's all."

"'Bout what?" Crutchie said.

Frances took a deep, shaky breath. "My son."

"You's got a son?" Crutchie asked.

"I - I did. I loved him more than anything in this whole world. He was the sweetest little kid. He was always talkin' about how he wanted to be a cowboy one day. After his father died, I got sick and they - they took him away. That Snyder took my son away."

"They took him to the Refuge?" Crutchie knew what that place was like, and he wouldn't wish it on anyone. Especially not a little kid.

"I've been lookin' for him for ten years now, and I just hope -" Frances took a breath. "I hope he knows that I've been lookin'. I hope he knows that I love him, and that I'm alive, and I just hope I can find him. I don't know what else I can do."

"One day," Crutchie said, although he wasn't sure if he believed it. "You's gonna find him."

* * *

The next week, Crutchie came again at night with a whole new story about Race and Romeo's latest prank war. "Miss Frankie? You in here?"

Frances stuck her head out from behind a set piece. "I'm here!"

"You's gotta hear about what Race did this time - "

As Crutchie told the story, Frances worked on cleaning the lightbulbs from the set piece. When he was done, she smiled.

"I always loved the painting on this one." She showed Crutchie the mural of a desert landscape that filled the background. There must have been a million colors in that sunset, and the cactus on it looked real enough to poke a hole in whoever got near it.

Crutchie grinned. "Jack painted this one. He used to go on and on 'bout Santa Fe and goin' out west and leaving New York behind. We newsies always used ta tease him 'bout bein' Jack Kelly the artist - "

Crutchie was interrupted by the sound of glass shattering. Frances had dropped her lightbulb to the ground, but was now looking at Crutchie like she'd just seen a ghost.

"What did you say?" Frances said softly, swallowing hard.

"I just said we was teasin' him 'bout being Jack Kelly the - "

Frances' eyes started to fill with tears. "An - an' you said he talks about Santa Fe all the time? And they call him Cowboy? An - an' his name's Jack Kelly?" she stammered out.

Crutchie barely had time to answer before Frances burst into tears. "That's him!" she cried as she sobbed with relief and joy. "My Jack!"

Crutchie was smiling as big as his face would let him. "You're Jack's Ma! Wait 'till he sees you!"

"Where is he? I have to see him," Frances said through her tears.

"The lodging house! I'll take ya to him!"

* * *

By the time they made it to the lodging house, the newsies were all asleep to be ready for the next day's work. Crutchie led Frances through the lodging house and to the entrance to get onto the roof.

As Crutchie got onto the roof, Jack ran over. "Where you been, Crutch? I been worried for hours!" Jack said, as he sighed with relief.

"I'm fine, Jack," Crutchie reassured him. "But I brought someone I think you should see."

As Frances came up onto the roof, she finally saw Jack. His hair, his eyes, his face, it was all the same. He was her son.

"Jack?" she asked quietly. "I don't know if you remember me - "

She couldn't even finish her sentence before she rushed over to him. She saw the tears in his eyes as they ran toward each other. All the years they were apart, all the words they never got to say, none of it mattered anymore. She hugged him as tightly as she could and vowed never to let him go.

"I'm sorry, Jack." Frances sobbed. "I'm so sorry."

Jack couldn't even respond through his tears. He just knew that all this time, she was alive. She was looking for him. She loved him.

And that was all they ever needed.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed. If you feel like it, leave a review to criticize me or give me a prompt or just say anything at all. I don't mind. Once again - Thanks for reading!**


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